


and when i think about you

by angelsaves



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Podfic Welcome, Referenced cannibalism, Sexual Fantasy, coda to s02e08: Dundee, referenced dick-chopping, roman roy is a weird boy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 14:04:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20836715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsaves/pseuds/angelsaves
Summary: Roman's proposal leaves Gerri a little bit on edge. She takes care of it.





	and when i think about you

After Roman leaves, taking a rose and a measure of her composure with him, Gerri sits down heavily on the bed. Marriage, really, Roman? She's almost more tempted by the cannibalism.

Gerri imagines biting him hard enough to draw blood, the way he'd whimper and rut against her thigh, and a shocking jolt of arousal strikes her. _Christ,_ she thinks, _he's contagious._

Squirming, she tries to force the fantasy to abate, but it's no good. Roman it is, then, and the only way out is through. He might have been more metaphorically than literally right when he claimed his antics got her juices flowing, but Gerri is resourceful; there's already a travel bottle of lube stashed in the bedside table.

She hikes up her skirt and slicks up her fingers. If she can just get off, maybe she can get back to work, revived and refreshed and not thinking about the taste of Roman's sweat and blood on her tongue. Yeah, maybe.

Gerri rolls her clit between two fingers, arching her hips up into the wet pressure. She wonders if Roman is good with his mouth. Probably not; he's undisciplined, spoiled, used to trading on his money and good looks to get what he wants. 

Oh, but he could be trained. Gerri exhales hard, smiling at the idea of making him channel that banked-fire intensity into her pleasure. She imagines him kneeling at her feet, looking up at her, and oh, it's good.

The Roman in her mind starts to eat her out, lazily and without finesse, and Gerri fucks herself with two fingers, letting her head fall back. She'd grab him by the scruff of the neck, that vulnerable skin exposed by the stretched-out collar of his shirt, and pull him back. 

"Do it right," she'd demand, and walk him through starting over, taking it slow, treating her like a queen. Gerri knows, by now, exactly what she wants from head, and she's confident that she could make even Roman deliver.

She rises up on her knees, grinding against the heel of her hand, and lets out a soft sound. Would she ask him to eat her out, in real life? Would it fit? Gerri isn't sure, but in her fantasy, she rides Roman's face hard, his perpetual stubble chafing the powder-soft skin of her inner thighs, and he moans against her cunt and palms his dick.

"Focus," she'd say, giving his hair a sharp tug. "This is about what you can do for _me_, Roman Roy."

He'd spread her wider and really go for it, then, Gerri thinks, with the carrot of his own orgasm dangling if he could only give her hers. It hits her hard, back in reality, leaving her sagging back into the pillows, and she imagines it's Roman's tongue she's coming around instead of her own fingers.

Chop his dick off, indeed -- no, even if Gerri has no intention of letting him fuck her with it, she does want to see him play with it. Maybe she'll wring another orgasm out of that thought: Roman, still on his knees, mouth swollen from making her come, pulling out his dick for her to consider.

She'd think about it for a moment, make him sweat, and then give him a little nod. Given an inch, he'd take a mile; would he finger himself, if she asked? Oh, that's a nice thought; Gerri's breath catches on it. Make the dirty boy touch himself everywhere, _oh_ she likes that image.

Baird had been more adventurous than anyone would have guessed, so Gerri's mind's eye can conjure up decades' worth of images of men experiencing the fun of their prostates. It's easy to superimpose Roman's face on them, and, to her chagrin, his bare chest as well. _Shirts-off shit._ She'd never have seen this coming, not then.

"Make yourself come, slime puppy," she imagines saying, "we've got work to do."

He'd come at her command, of course, and then she really would make him work: paperwork, the dull shit, while aftershocks made her cunt tremble and his dick softened in his pants. She'd turn her sulky, snarky lump of clay into a Galatea worthy of a dream team, using whatever tools came to hand.

That tips Gerri over the edge again, warm waves easing the tension in her shoulders. She lets herself relax into it, even knowing her suit will get crumpled. _Let it,_ she thinks. _Maybe it'll make Roman's imagination run wild._


End file.
